Blondie and the Beast
by Spencer5460
Summary: Written for the Starsky & Hutch 2017 Advent Calendar: A childhood transgression had made Davey Starsky irredeemable, not fit for polite society. A freak. What would it take to change his life?


**Blondie and the Beast**

 _Tale as old as time_

 _True as it can be_

 _Barely even friends_

 _Then somebody bends_

 _Unexpectedly_

 _Just a little change_

 _Small to say the least_

 _Both a little scared_

 _Neither one prepared . . ._

Disney's Beauty and the Beast -Music by Alan Menken

 _Prologue_

Early October put a nip in the air and stole away daylight in bits and pieces. That meant less freedom. More homework. Davey knew he was supposed to head home when the streetlights came on, but his team was winning the stickball game and he couldn't just leave. By the time he scored the winning run, it was at least half an hour past curfew.

A pack of cigarettes passed around set him behind even more. But the hard-fought win and daring celebration was worth the lecture - or worse - he'd get when he got home. When the cigarettes had burned down to ashes, his teammates scattered like cockroaches.

Davey had kicked a can half-way to King's Theatre when he saw the black and white coming down the street toward him.

 _Damn._ His pop or even someone else from his department must be out looking for him. In all likelihood, his mom had reported that he was late coming home. Davey wished she'd stop treating him like he was Nicky's age. He was practically thirteen after all. Being a cop's kid, he could rarely get away with anything.

He ducked behind a garbage can set out on a nearby curb for the morning's pickup. The beams from the patrol car's headlights cut through the falling night like cat's eyes. As the car cruised past, Davey let go of the breath he'd been holding. He needed more time to come up with a sympathetic story for being late and for the tobacco scent that clung to his jacket to fade.

Davey waited until he figured the car was several blocks down Albemarle before he stood up. He sniffed his collar and wondered if his mother would believe that Sammy Katz had twisted his ankle and Davey'd helped him home. Just then, two explosions in quick succession came from the direction of Albemarle, making him jump. They were followed by the slam of metal on metal and sound of glass breaking. A car horn began to wail.

An over-active curiosity overcame his fear of being discovered out past curfew. He took off at a sprint toward Albemarle. Two blocks down, the squad car that had passed him had run up a curb and into a light post. The hood had compressed into the front seat like his cousin's accordion.

Out of the corner of his eye, Davey saw a man in a long dark coat disappear into an alley. Everyone else on the block seemed to have gone into hiding.

Davey ran up to the car and stopped short a few feet away. Steam rose from what was once the engine compartment. The horn continued to blare. Through the side window he could see an officer hunched over the steering wheel, motionless. Blood seeped through the back of his uniform, forming a dark, wet splotch between his shoulder blades. Dave couldn't see the man's face but he couldn't mistake the dark hair that curled above the collar.

Pop.

Suddenly, above the plaintive horn, the night erupted with the scream of sirens. Three black and whites careened down the street, squealing to a stop in a semi-circle around Davey's father's car. Officers Davey recognized from departmental picnics and occasional dinners at his family's house jumped out of their cars. Two went to pull his father out from behind the wheel as another grabbed Davey and shook him.

"What happened?" A man he knew as Officer Grendel, asked.

"I . . . I don't know," Davey stammered. "I was around the corner when I heard something like gun fire. I just ran over here to see. Is pop gonna be okay?"

Officer Grendel looked over at Sargent Starsky now laying on the ground, his fellow officers hovering over him and checking his vital signs, then turned back to Davey. His lips were as tight as the head of a drum. Rather than answer the boy's question, he instead put his hands on his shoulders and turned him away.

"You okay, kid?" the officer asked.

Davey nodded. He stretched his neck to look around to where his father lay but Grendel maneuvered him to his squad car. He called dispatch for an ambulance, speaking tersely about a hit and an officer down. And something more. Something about the threat to take out a policeman that had apparently been carried out.

That's when Davey knew. He'd often been told he was too sharp for his own good. Pop was gone. He'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Davey felt hot and cold at the same time. But there was something else Davey felt all the way through to his bones – the knowledge that his father would still be alive if he hadn't been there looking for Davey.

If only Davey had gone home on time . . .

 **Chapter One**

 _Twelve years later._

Dave Starsky handed the envelope thick with cash to his boss, Big Joe Durniak. Joe gave him a smile. Over the years, they'd become more like family than employer and employee. Everyone on the block liked Big Joe. He had a knack of showing up just when someone needed a hand. Spare tires to replace treads worn dangerously thin, a bag of groceries when the union went on strike, a teddy bear for a new baby. Flowers for a funeral.

Joe Durniak had been giving Dave errands to earn extra money since even before he was old enough to drive. He'd approached him shortly after his father had been buried. Dave was happy to have the extra money in his pocket. Even more, he liked the excuse to be away from home. To escape from the pain - and blame - he saw in his mother's eyes whenever she looked at him.

She never said anything about it, of course. Only to remind Davey how he was man of the house. To tell him that he needed to look out for his little brother. But mostly, she warned him to stay clear of the trouble that was too easy to find on the street without a father to guide him. It didn't matter. She might have well have painted it on a fucking billboard.

Little Davey Starsky was responsible for his father's death.

But now little Davey Starsky had grown into a man. He could tell Joe Durniak liked him. It felt good to be seen for something other than a monster. He knew his mother wouldn't have approved of most of the errands he did. The deliveries made to back alley doors, or standing guard when one of Joe's partners talked to a customer. He learned to ignore the shouts and sounds of broken glass that came from inside, the same way he'd learned to block out of his feelings.

Slowly but surely he took on ever riskier jobs as though he had nothing to lose.

Then came a stint in the army after high school. It did nothing to temper Dave Starsky. If anything, living through the brutality of war made him even harder. He internalized its ugliness, pushing out what was left of his humanity.

"You've done good, Davey," Joe told him as he tucked the envelope in his overcoat. Dave winced at the childish name even as the simple compliment warmed the chill in his heart. "I have something special for you. I think you're ready to move up."

"Sure, Joe." Dave answered. Anything was better than staying where he was. Sometimes it felt like his whole body itched. He wondered if a snake felt this way when its skin was molting.

"I have an associate out in Los Angeles who says he could use a man like you. Someone capable and trustworthy. Someone who doesn't ask too many questions."

"California?" A world away from the concrete cage of New York. Somewhere it was always warm and sunny. The thought took Dave's breath away.

"What do ya say?"

Joe took Dave's silence as a yes. Besides, no one said 'no' to Big Joe Durniak.

ooOOoo

Joe made the arrangements, all Dave had to do was tell his mother and Nicky he was leaving. Nick fumed with jealousy and Dave ached to tell him he was nothing to be jealous of. Mrs. Starsky patted his cheek sadly. He could still feel the warmth of her hand as he stepped off the plane and into foreign territory. Sprawling where New York was condensed. Lush where New York was barren. But he'd been in foreign lands before. It wasn't as if he felt he really _belonged_ anywhere. So he stiffened his spine, schooled the features of his face and buried any trepidation deep in his chest.

A driver picked him up and took him to a nondescript, two-story building that looked like it should apologize for its appearance in a town known for its glitter and glamour. Inside, he was introduced to his new boss, Gus Stone.

Gus held court behind a large walnut desk. He combed ringed fingers through heavy, dark hair. Some might have considered him good looking but Starsky only saw a man driven to a hard edge. "Joe says you can be trusted," Gus said, eyeing Starsky up and down like a prize stallion. He must have liked what he saw since he bestowed Starsky with a toothy smile.

"That's what Joe says." Starsky replied simply, the itchy sensation returning. His jeans felt too thin, his sweater too prickly. Outside, the California sun poured out its warmth, but inside Gus' office Starsky shivered.

Gus reached into the top drawer of his imposing desk and pulled out a black notebook. He handed it to Starsky. Starsky flipped the numerous pages that were set up like a accounting statement, with names, amounts, dates and running totals. Vinnie's hardware, June 22 - $1,000. May paid $1,250. balance due - $500. Black check marks indicated accounts that were up to date. Red stars indicated accounts that had fallen behind.

"This is a list of all my accounts. What I've lent out and what I'm owed. I run an important operation. Everybody here has a lot on the line. I do my clients a favor by lending them money they can't get anywhere else. I expect loyalty in return."

In Gus' world, loyalty wasn't earned. It was bought and paid for. Unlike Big Joe, it wasn't Gus' style to check up on a neighbor or visit a friend in the hospital to win over hearts and minds. In fact, Starsky was pretty sure Gus didn't _have_ friends. That was okay with Starsky, he thought, since neither did he.

"It'll be your job to make sure I get a return on my investment," Gus said.

"Sure thing," Starsky nodded. He could read between the lines as well as anyone and better than most. The notebook's little red stars might well have been written in blood. But Big Joe had sent him here. Had _recommended_ him for this job. The man who'd been like a second father to him must have realized this kind of work was the only thing Starsky was good for. He wasn't surprised that Joe just might have known him better than he knew himself.

Starsky wondered how far he'd go to see that Gus' accounts were paid. Break a window, break a finger or worse? But what could be worse than what he'd already done? He was irredeemable, not fit for polite society. A freak.

Gus tossed out a set of keys and Starsky snatched it out of the air with a 'snick.' His fingers curled around the small pieces of metal without further examination. "Keys to an apartment," Gus said. "A car will be dropped off tomorrow. It should suit a macho guy like you."

"Sure thing," Starsky said. A bird in a gilded cage.

ooOOoo

At first, the job was easier than Starsky thought it would be. When people saw him coming, they straightened up their work spaces, licked their lips, called him "Mister Starsky." They handed over their hard-earned money with shaky hands.

He did nothing to dispel the notion that he was something to be feared. Gus' clients had risked a deal with a devil in order to chase the American Dream. He had no desire to break boundaries or become personally involved. They reminded him too much of the life, and the people, he'd left behind.

Nicco who made Baklava that could melt in your mouth, Marie with the flower stand he could smell half a block away. "Something for your girlfriend?" She said one time, offering up a perfect rose after he'd taken enough money from her to feed her small family for a week. He turned his head and hurried away.

No rose, no lover. Not ever.

The last stop of the week was at a bar called "Huggy Bear's." Rough around the edges but somehow homey, too. It was popular with the locals without the bells and whistles - apart from a pinball machine and jukebox - preferred by the higher class crowd.

Starsky slid into a dimly lit back booth. As he drank the cold beer the waitress had brought, he watched cozy couples and small groups of friends unwind from a long week. For a minute he tried to imagine what it would be like to have people want to be with him, rather than fear him. To share a drink in friendship rather than supplication.

Starsky watched as a lanky African-American man, apparently the proprietor, made his rounds. His clothes were bright and flamboyant and seemed a reflection of his personality. With the energy of a well-aimed cue ball, the man bounced around the room. He helped the waitress hand out drinks and wiped down tables as he exchanged words with nearly everyone. Eventually, he made his way over to Starsky's corner.

"Greetings, friend. I haven't seen you in here before." He flipped the rag he'd been carrying over his shoulder and stuck out a long-fingered hand. "Huggy's the name and service with a smile is my game."

At first, Starsky just stared at the hand, then let his gaze travel the arm up to Huggy's face, taking in his wide smile and bright eyes. "This isn't a social call," he said.

Huggy withdrew his hand. "Then just why are you here?"

"Gus Stone sent me."

"I see." Huggy's warm expression frosted over. "Excuse me for a minute."

He walked away and Starsky's eyes followed him as he opened a door to a room just past the bar. He didn't have to wait long. Huggy emerged a few minutes later and came back over to take a seat across from Starsky. He slid an envelope to him under the table.

"It's all there," Huggy told him.

Starsky nodded. "It better be. Or else."

"Or else what? You'll come back and smash a few bottles? Break a few heads? Look man, I borrowed money from your boss because I couldn't get it any other way. No bank was going to lend money to someone like me. Young, black, and with no references. But I got big dreams. This place," he gestured around him, "is just the start."

"Good for you," Starsky said unenthusiastically as he took another swig of beer. It helped to sooth the tightness in his throat.

Huggy leaned his forearms in the table. "So what's your story?" He asked.

"What?" The question, asked in such a straightforward manner, took Starsky by surprise.

"How'd you come to work for a scum like Gus Stone? You seem like a smart guy."

"You know nothin' about me." Starsky tipped back his beer, wanting nothing more than to finish it off and get out of the place.

"I know that everybody has a past. But you can't let your past keep you from moving on."

Starsky slammed the now empty glass mug down on the table and stood up. "Maybe you should have been a shrink instead of a bar keep."

Huggy just shrugged. "Sometimes they're the same thing," he said as Starsky walked passed him.

Starsky strode to the door and nearly bumped into a tall blond man who was just walking in. The man quickly sidestepped him with athletic grace and looked to Starsky for an apology. Instead, Starsky sent him a dark glare. The other man remained uncowed, however. He just looked back at him with clear blue eyes. That's when Starsky felt a spark between them, as if the friction of their encounter had lit a match in some other dimension. But then the moment passed and Starsky continued on his way.

Once out in the street, Starsky looked back into the window of the bar. He saw Huggy greet the newcomer warmly and show him to a center table. He watched the waitress hurry over to him. The man said something to her, perhaps asking for a drink. Or even a date, by the way the waitress fawned.

Starsky suppressed a sigh. Blond hair and blue eyes went a long way in this world. But Starsky was ugly through to his soul.

 **Chapter Two**

Days strung into weeks, like endless coils of barbed wire. Starsky found pleasure in nothing. Not in the warm Southern California sun, not in the sporty red Chevelle he drove around town. Not in the soothing rhythm of the ocean waves as he walked along the beach alone.

One night he was invited to Gus's house for a party. He had no desire to socialize, but knew better than to turn down the invitation. Unlike his no-frills office, Gus's house was a sprawling, Spanish style home in a gated hillside community. Bougainvillea and vines of white roses clung to the stucco walls. A decadent patio and pool filled the backyard. High walls insured privacy. A palace where Gus was king.

It wasn't long before tobacco and cannabis eclipsed the aroma of the roses. Starsky stood sipping a perfect Manhattan, watching well-muscled men and scantily clad women roam the grounds like peacocks, when he was called in for a private meeting with Gus.

Gus dismissed a buxom redhead at Starsky's approach. She seemed about to smile at him but something changed her mind as she shimmied past. ' _Is the monster in me so obvious?'_ Starsky thought.

Gus watched her walk away before he asked, "Are you having a good time?" His big smile was as phony as the redhead's tits.

"Sure," Starsky responded with a wave of his highball glass.

"Look around, Starsky," Gus straightened in his chair and reached for a cigar from the box on the table between them. He neglected to offer one to Starsky. "All this didn't come easy. I came up from the streets just like you. I have what others don't because I'm willing to do what others won't."

Starsky stood passively but felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. He didn't need a fatherly lecture about how to win friends and influence people, he wanted to growl. His father was long in the grave.

Gus cut off the end of the cigar and put it to his lips, wetting it. A waiter appeared and held up a lighter. Gus took a deep draw on the rolled tobacco. He closed his eyes and held the smoke in his mouth for a few seconds before releasing it. Starsky envied the smoke's ability to disappear into the night air.

"You've been doing a good job. Joe was right to recommend you. You're loyal and trustworthy. Your accounts, for the most part, are all current. And you've been able to do your job with a minimum of fuss. I like that. I don't like unnecessary attention." Gus took another deep, leisurely draw on the cigar. "But you've given Maria Delvecchio a pass for three weeks now."

"Marie's son got sick. She had to take him to the hospital. She promised to catch up next month."

"That's not my problem. But now it's yours." Gus crushed the lit end of the half-smoked cigar onto the tile table top, oblivious to the black smudge it creates. "I'm docking your pay for the amount Delveccio owes. Make sure softness doesn't become a habit."

Starsky took Gus' warning for a dismissal. He tossed out his drink in the bushes as he walked.

ooOOoo

Starsky stood outside of Huggy Bear's bar feeling as though he'd swallowed glass. Huggy was two weeks late in his payments. But he was determined to do his job. To justify Big Joe. To solidify his heart of stone.

Starsky pushed open the door with more force than was necessary. It was just before closing time and the place was nearly empty. He felt the eyes of the few remaining regulars turn to him then look away as he made his way up to the bar. A few seats away, Huggy was trading banter with the blond whom Starsky had learned was a frequent customer. "Hutch," he was called.

Huggy acknowledged Starsky but, to his credit, didn't head to the back to avoid him. He left blondie with his drink and came over to where Starsky leaned his hip into the bar.

"I'm a little short this week," Huggy said, taking a glass from a shelf and holding it beneath a nearby tap.

"That's what you said last time. Gus is losing his patience."

"I told you. Doris, my waitress, was in a bad accident and needed money to fix her car. So I gave her a little extra. Have a heart. Hell, she's still on crutches." Huggy flipped open the tap and chilled beer poured out, hitting the side of the glass as it filled, finishing with a foaming head.

"That's your problem, not mine. Get a new waitress."

Huggy set the tall mug in front of Starsky and tsked. "That's cold, dude."

"You have no idea," Starsky said without looking at the beer.

"So what you gonna do? Chop off my ear like some kind of funky Van Gogh?"

Starsky gave him a dark stare, the weight of brass knuckles heavy in his pocket. Usually that look was enough to make a customer dig deeper in their wallet. Find a little extra they'd managed to squirrel away. But not this time. Huggy was being truthful. He wasn't holding back.

"Is there a problem here?" Hutch appeared at Starsky's shoulder, standing a few inches taller.

Starsky was far from intimidated. "I suggest you mind your own business," he growled.

"Just a bit of a misunderstanding, Hutch. This is Dave Starsky. He works for Gus Stone." Huggy said the name like spitting out sour milk.

Hutch gave a 'humph.' "Don't tell me you got yourself mixed up with that lowlife, Huggy," he said, apparently unbothered by Starsky's presence.

Huggy shrugged his wiry shoulders. "A brother has ta do what a brother has ta do to get ahead in this world. I'm just runnin' a little behind right now."

"How much?" Hutch asked, reaching into his jacket pocket.

"Probably more than you got, I'm afraid. Besides, like the man said. You'd best stay out of it," Huggy told him.

Starsky picked up the heavy mug of beer set in front of him and tipped it, letting the golden liquid pour out on the scuffed linoleum floor. Half of it splashed onto Hutch's shoes. "What the hell," Hutch yelped. He made a grab for Starsky's arm but Starsky twisted away slick as an eel.

He took the empty mug and threw it hard into a neon Coors sign hanging on the wall behind just Huggy's head. Huggy flinched as pieces of colored glass rained down. The remaining customers quickly found reasons to leave.

"This is your last warning," Starsky directed to Huggy. "Have the money by next Friday or you'll have more broken than just glass."

Huggy looked at the mess on the floor and grimaced. He turned back to Starsky, his lips in a thin line. "Yeah, yeah," he grumbled as he went for a mop and a broom.

Starsky turned to face Hutch head on, fire in his belly. Hutch glared back, his eyes glittering like blue ice. Starsky had mistaken Hutch's charm and good looks for docility, but this was no Boy Scout. Starsky instinctively knew the man wouldn't back down from a fight. He felt an unlikely admiration for him. Almost an affinity.

Hutch pointed a finger straight in his face, practically touching him. "Get the hell out of here," he said.

Starsky could have sucker punched him, slipping on the brass knuckles for added effect, broke some chairs or even the pinball machine, but he didn't. Maybe it was the way Hutch had faced him head on, without reservation, but the fire within him had strangely been doused. Starsky turned and walked away not wanting to think, not wanting to feel, not caring how the scene would play out with Gus.

ooOOoo

Outside of Huggy's bar, Starsky slumped down in the front seat of his cherry red Chevelle. He didn't know why he just didn't drive way. He pictured Hutch helping Huggy sweep up the shattered glass, mop the floor, maybe even count his cash drawer figuring out how Huggy could come up with the money he owed, until the inside lights went off.

The street was thrown into darkness except for street light at the corner. He was about to turn the key in ignition when he was startled by a tap on the passenger side. _What the fuck._ It was Hutch.

"Haven't you done enough tonight?" Hutch asked, leaning down into the half-opened window.

The confrontation surprised him. He didn't know how to respond. Hutch's next move surprised him even more. He opened the car door and climbed in. Starsky was like a deer frozen in headlights. He stared straight ahead until Hutch broke the awkward silence.

"What makes someone want to go around harassing other people? Is it the money? Is it really worth it?" Hutch asked.

"Get the fuck out of my cahr," Starsky ordered gruffly, the last word mangled by his east coast accent.

Hutch remained unruffled. "Not until you answer my question."

Starsky shifted position unnecessary since the soft leather of the bucket seat conformed to his backside like a glove. _What's it gonna take to get rid of this guy?_ _Honesty?_ "Maybe because I'm not fit for anything else," he said and winced inwardly.

"And why is that?" Hutch asked, softer now.

"Why are you so full of fuckin' questions?" Starsky snarled in a tone that had frightened off so many others.

Hutch shrugged. "I don't know. There's just something about you . . . Maybe I think your bark is worse than your bite. Or maybe I just want to help out a friend."

"You're wrong. You don't know anything about me. And if you did, you wouldn't want to be sitting in this cahr right now." Starsky curled his fingers painfully tight around the steering wheel. _Who was this guy to dredge up old wounds? Why talk of things that can't be changed?_

"Huggy's good for the money. He'll pay you when he can. Just not right now."

"That's not how this game is played, Blondie."

Hutch leaned back, tilting his head into the soft leather, and sighed. "I'm sorry you feel that way."

Sitting so close, Starsky couldn't help but appreciate the pleasant profile of Hutch's face, the gentle sincerity of his words. ' _Me, too_ ,' Starsky almost let slip, but then tightened his lips. The silence returned, falling cold as snow. He turned the key and the powerful engine roared to life.

Hutch got the message and was smart enough not to push his luck. He opened the car door and got out. "I'll be seein' you," he said as he pushed the door closed, then stepped onto the sidewalk.

"I'd think twice about that." Starsky pressed down clutch pedal and shifted hard. He didn't look behind as the car squealed off into the night.

 **Chapter Three**

More evenings than not, Starsky found himself parked outside of Huggy's place until the lights were turned off. He told himself he was just checking up on his account. Making sure Huggy didn't skip town. But in the back of his mind he knew Huggy wasn't the cowardly type.

Starsky found that Hutch was there most nights, too, usually staying past closing. Probably offering Huggy some kind of protection, Starsky surmised, like some fucking white knight. Hutch would even nod a little acknowledgement as he walked past Starsky's car on his way to the parking lot across the street. As if they'd established some kind of temporary truce.

One night, a few minutes before closing, Hutch knocked on Starsky's car window and waved a small, white paper bag at him. A knee-jerk reaction to the irresistible smell of grilled onions and French fries made him gesture for Hutch to get in the car.

"Huggy made an extra order. He'll just throw it away if someone doesn't eat it," Hutch explained, settling into the passenger seat.

The tantalizing scent filled the car, making him salivate like one of Pavlov's dogs. "Why don't you just eat it?" Starsky grunted.

"Me?" Hutch grinned. "I'm a vegetarian."

"Bullshit," Starsky retorted. He reached into the bag and unwrapped a thick, juicy hamburger with cheese melting off the edges. As he took a large bite and was reminded of why cheese burgers were called 'comfort food.'

"Why would anyone want to be a vegetarian?" Starsky asked, licking his fingers appreciatively.

"Because I grew up around cows. On a farm in Minnesota," Hutch explained simply. "I raised a calf from birth, named her 'Bossy.'

"I call this one 'Delicious." Starsky finished off the burger quickly. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. Not that he'd been going without, just that the simple pleasure of a good meal eluded him these days. When he started in on the French fries, Hutch reached over and grabbed a few.

"Hey!" Starsky growled.

"Potatoes are fair game." Unchastened, Hutch shoved a few in his mouth and smacked his lips appreciatively. "Best fries in town," he asserted.

Starsky felt the twitch of a smile. It was good just to talk. It felt natural to have Hutch sitting next to him. His loneliness seemed to fall away like a cast off cloak. If he shut out the street and sign glowing above the bar, he could pretend they were simply buddies sharing some greasy bar food. He could pretend he was just like everyone instead of something nightmares were made of.

"What are you doing in L.A.?" Starsky found himself asking.

"Going to law school. I figured if I have to spend the next few years studying, I might as well do it on a beach. What about you? You don't sound like a local."

"I grew up in Brooklyn."

Hutch made a little 'hmmmm' sound in the back of his throat. "You're a long way from home."

Starsky shrugged his shoulders to indicate it didn't matter to him. He turned his focus instead on incongruence of their relationship - such as it was. "Isn't a little strange? A would-be lawyer and lowlife hood talkin' like this?" His question held the bite of a challenge.

"Oh, I don't know. One never knows what life has planned," Hutch demurred. "Do you have folks back east?"

"My ma and brother are there. My pop is. . ." Starsky felt the ever present, dull ache turn to a sharp spear in his gut. "Dead," he forced out, as the knife inside twisted and sliced upward to exert maximum damage. The burger he'd just finished threatened to come back up.

Hutch laid a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry."

The touch was like dry ice - freezing yet burning him at the same time. The last time someone had touched him with tenderness was when his mother had pressed her hand to his cheek months ago. He'd forgotten how pleasant human contact could be. Like a cherished heirloom he'd packed away and abandoned years ago, only to be discovered later, bringing with it a flood of bittersweet memories.

Starsky closed his eyes, fighting a wave of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. Feelings he'd fought for years to bury, the way they'd buried his father. When he reopened his eyes, he was blinded by the letters that spelled out 'Huggy Bear's' lit up against the blackness of the night beyond his window.

Starsky jerked away. "I don't need anyone feelin' sorry for me."

Hutch followed Starsky's gaze to the neon sign. He paused, then said, "Yeah, I'd have to be crazy to do that."

He gathered up the trash and got out. Then Starsky put the car in gear and drove away, leaving Hutch standing at the curb and the front seat empty.

ooOOoo

Starsky continued to stop by Huggy's regularly and watch the life inside through the windows. Hutch hadn't come back out to his car. It was better that way, he told himself and he tried to ignore the ache of disappointment.

Besides, the connection he'd felt with Hutch was sure to break when he could no longer ignore Huggy's late payments.

Doris, his waitress, was just getting back to work. Starsky had seen her the previous night, gamely taking orders with a taped up ankle. But Gus had called Starsky into his office twice that week already questioning his collection methods. He couldn't wait any more.

Huggy's place would be closing in five minutes. Through the window he watched the remaining patrons pay their tabs. He took another swig from the bottle obscured by brown paper and took sadistic pleasure in the burn of the cheap gin down his throat. He glanced into the rearview mirror and saw a pair midnight blue eyes staring back at him. A creature's eyes - hideous and soulless. He no longer recognized himself.

 _Who could want anything to do with me now?_ The thought ran through his mind like a poison.

He took another deep swig from the bottle. It was almost empty, nearly ready to join the other one lying on the floor boards. Liquid courage. ' _Damn Hutch,'_ he thought, for making him feel, if only for a few minutes, that he could be like everyone else.

Starsky got of the Chevelle and laid a hand on its cooling hood. The street seemed to undulate beneath his feet like a fun house floor and he waited for it to stabilize. He blinked at the sign above the door, the bright letters running together. He felt for the brass knuckles and the knife in his jeans pocket. He thought of the gun under the front seat. There was no going back. He wasn't good for anything else.

After a few minutes Starsky pitched in through the door of the bar, then stopped. Hutch was perched long-legged on a bar stool, talking with Huggy and Doris who were drying and putting away glasses. Starsky hadn't expected otherwise, although it didn't stop the jolt that hit his chest.

They all stopped what they were doing when they saw Starsky.

"Time's up, Hug," Starsky announced and flicked out his knife.

Hutch slipped from the chair to stand at his full height, facing him silently.

"I been waitin' for ya," Huggy said as he deftly moved to intercede. He told Doris to leave and she quickly complied, careful not to make eye contact with Starsky as she went. Huggy pulled the drawer out from cash register and reached into the bottom to pull out a thick, banded up wad of cash.

"This is the balance of what I owe. Three grand." Huggy tossed the bundle on the counter of the bar where it landed with a thump.

Starsky approached unsteadily, eyeing the cash and trying to ignore Hutch. He picked up the wad and thumbed through it, the faded faces of long dead presidents staring up at him. Judging him. Starsky swallowed hard.

"You're still short. There's a matter of interest . . . . "

"You can tell your asshole boss I won't be payin' any more interest. I've paid enough."

"It ain't good enough," Starsky said. He brandished the knife at Huggy, the steel blade catching the shafts of remaining light overhead.

"Put that away," Hutch said quietly, "or I'm calling the police."

"No cops, Hutch," Huggy broke in. "In this neighborhood, I don't need that kind of publicity. Besides, I'm not so sure the boys in blue will see my side of things."

"You're payin' - one way or another. The easy way or the hard way," Starsky said as he took another step forward, but his voice sounded all wrong. Instead of reverberating deep and threatening, it was muffled, like it was passing through cotton.

"Is this what you really want?" Hutch asked.

He made a tentative move toward him but Starsky jabbed out with the knife and Hutch jumped back, a thread of blood appearing on the back of his hand.

"You have no idea what I want," Starsky raged. "Fuck, even _I_ don't know. I don't know who - or what - I am!"

Starsky lunged from side to side unsteadily, waving the knife as if fending off unseen foes. Goblins of pain and loss and guilt.

"Put the knife down, Starsky." Hutch's voice was calm, hypnotic.

Starsky looked back at Hutch but his features had blurred. His blue eyes shimmered like an oasis in the desert.

"Move aside, Hutch."

"If you want to cut someone, cut me." Hutch stood like a statute. He looked like Michelangelo's David, noble and confident. Beautiful. Everything that Starsky was not and could never be.

Starsky thought of the eyes of the beast in the mirror. He recoiled inwardly, while lurching forward at the same time. This time Hutch was ready for him. He went to grab his wrist but Starsky twisted his arm wildly, slashing the knife through the air, aiming at nothing and everything. Nevertheless, Hutch held on until there was a snap of bones.

Starsky groaned loudly and the knife fell from his hand, clattering onto the linoleum.

"Jesus," Huggy breathed.

Starsky stared at the knife. It seemed to have landed at almost the same spot where he had poured out the mug of beer, splashing Hutch's shoes. Had that been only a few short weeks ago?

The ground began to roll under his feet like waves, the air seemed to buffet him like a storm wind. He fell to his knees and Hutch was there beside him, propping him up where his wrist had collapsed at an odd angle, useless.

"I'll drive you to a doctor," Hutch offered.

"No doctor. No," Starsky gasped as the pain in his wrist collided with the alcohol in his system, "doctor." He swallowed down the bitter bile that threatened to erupt from his gullet, to humiliate him even more.

"Suit yourself." Hutch helped Starsky to a chair and gently examined his wrist. Starsky didn't have the spirit to protest. He didn't even make a good villain. Huggy went to kitchen and reappeared with some bar rags. Starsky watched dejectly as Hutch bound his injured wrist, immobilizing it while Huggy stood guard over his shoulder.

"Ya ever consider goin' into medicine instead of law?" Huggy commented.

Hutch gave a little laugh like a puff of air. "I grew up on a farm, remember? This is no worse than getting kicked by a mule. Besides, my father would never forgive me if I didn't follow in his footsteps." He gave the rag binding a final firm and gentle tug.

"Perish the thought!" Huggy rolled his eyes, his sarcasm letting them know how he felt about the legal profession in general.

"Where do you want me to take you?" Hutch asked Starsky.

Starsky hadn't looked at either of them while Hutch had applied first aid, but rather studied the scuff patterns on the floor, hoping that staring at one spot would stop either his head or the room from spinning. The knife had disappeared, Huggy having locked it up in his back room.

"I can drive." Starsky finally found the voice to grumble.

"No, you can't. Even if you could manage the steering wheel with that wrist, you're drunk as a skunk. Is there someone you can call?"

"Someone who's not going to bust up my bar?" Huggy added for good measure.

"You should get that x-rayed. If the bones are dislocated, they'll need to be repositioned," Hutch said. "You can have someone take you to the doctor tomorrow.

Starsky shook his head. He had no one. The slight movement caused the room to resume its spinning. He stifled a groan.

Hutch sighed. "Come on then. Just give me an address," he told him as he hoisted Starsky to his feet.

 **Chapter Four**

Starsky's apartment was in a bland, four-story building in Huntington Beach. It came with the prerequisite palm trees, pool and lounge area for sun-worshippers who didn't want the hassle of going to the beach. Hutch opened the door to the unit then handed the key back to Starsky.

"Are you sure this is your place?" He asked as Starsky flipped on a wall switch, throwing light onto the sparsely furnished room. A faux leather couch and coffee table that looked barely used were pushed against a wall. A dust-covered Zenith TV sat in a corner. Dark drapes shrouded the large picture window. The only signs of life were a few pieces of dirty laundry and Popular Mechanics magazines scattered about.

"What's that supposed ta mean?" Starsky fell onto the couch and lifted his feet to rest on the coffee table.

Hutch continued to stand. "Well, it's nice and all, but it just doesn't look like anything you'd pick out for yourself."

"I didn't."

"Oh?"

"Gus Stone set me up. The car's not mine either."

"Oh." Hutch found the bathroom and opened the door to the medicine cabinet. Inside was a razor, a can of shaving cream, toothpaste. "Do you have any aspirin round here?"

"Huh?" Starsky was falling deeper into a fog that had begun enveloping him ever since falling into Hutch's car, an old Ford that somehow seemed a much more comfortable ride than his fancy Chevelle.

"Aspirin. You'll need it once your buzz wears off."

"No."

"Christ, Starsk. How can you live this way?" Hutch walked back into the living room.

 _Starsk_. The shortened version of his name sounded affectionate. The way one might refer to a friend.

Starsky felt Hutch's weight sink into the couch beside him. Felt him lift up his wrist and gently yet efficiently check the binding.

"Who says I'm living? I'm just existing." Even to him, his voice sounded hollow, disembodied.

Hutch set down his wrist. "Don't you want something more?" He asked quietly.

"I don't deserve anything more. I'm a freak." Starsky felt himself slipping on the semi-slick material and thought he'd end up puddled on the floor. Instead, he found himself leaned up against something firm and unyielding. Hutch's side.

He recognized the faint smell of cigarette smoke that lingered on Hutch's shirt from the bar, a clean, masculine scent of aftershave, the warmth of beer on his breath when he asked, "why do you say that."

Starsky felt as much as heard the question. The words came from deep within Hutch's chest, vibrating through him, pouring out over Starsky like balm.

What answer could he give to make Hutch understand? If being a loan shark's errand boy didn't disgust him, what would? Starsky's thoughts traveled back to a warm October night. A stickball game. His reluctance to return to the confines of home, homework, chores. He'd thought he'd been bigger than that. The life laid out ahead of him more exciting. Until he'd heard the pop of a gun, squealing tires, metal smashing obscenely on metal.

"I killed my pop." Starsky murmured.

In his mind he saw his father hunched over the steering wheel, the dark blood spreading between his shoulders. It was a sight he'd never been able to forget no matter how hard he tried or how far he ran. Sergeant Starsky would still be alive if not for his errant son.

Starsky felt Hutch's quick intake of breath. Felt him tense up, pull back fractionally. The pain of it hurt worse than a knife, amazing him that he still could feel anything at all.

"I, Hutch swallowed heavily, ". . . I don't believe that."

"Believe it," Starsky said, his voice falling into his practiced, tough tone even as his words slurred. "'A long time ago."

"How long? When you were a kid?"

"I was thirteen."

Starsky could sense Hutch contemplating the enormity of the confession. Could picture Hutch's face take on a look of revulsion. Starsky kept his eyes on the flat beige wall ahead. He dreaded seeing Hutch's open expression close down, just like everyone else's. But he didn't kid himself that it wouldn't once Hutch knew the ugly truth.

"My pop was a policeman back in Brooklyn. One night, I was late comin' home and he came lookin' for me. He was . . . I mean . . . He never would have been on that street if it wasn't for. . ." Starsky felt a sob build in his chest. He fought it back but it bubbled up like a hot spring, scalding his throat.

"He was sh. . .shot," the words burned his tongue. "Story is, a local mob had it out for the cops for shuttin' down their operation. Said they'd take one out, as a warnin' ta back off. So they did. My pop."

Hutch's shoulder that had pulled away seemed to creep back closer. "I think you're a little confused," he said. " _You_ didn't kill your father, someone _else_ did."

Starsky had heard the rationalization more than once. From the parish priest, the school counselor. Even his pop's police buddies. It didn't matter. Starsky was the only one who knew the truth of what he'd done. He'd drawn his own father into deadly fire. He knew what he was. He was responsible. He'd gotten his father killed as surely as if he'd pulled the trigger of the gun or driven the car into the light post.

Joe Durniak had understood. That's why they'd drawn close. Big Joe had recognized the animal in him and set him on the path to where he belonged. A dark, shadowy place far away from decent society.

"Look, we all make mistakes when we're kids," Hutch said. "We all disappoint our parents at one time or another. It doesn't make us irredeemable."

Starsky wasn't buying it. No one had messed up the way he had. And especially not this perfect person sitting next to him. Brave, smart, loyal, caring . . . What could _he_ ever possibly have messed up?

As if Hutch had read his mind, he admitted, "I screwed up with my parents big time."

Starsky moved his head back and forth against Hutch's shoulder. Against the thought that Hutch could ever be a disappointment to anyone.

"No, it's true." Hutch sighed. "They had such different plans for me than I had for myself. My dad is a lawyer, but I've actually always wanted to be a cop. Talk about coincidence, huh? I couldn't see sitting around an office in a suit and tie, writing up contracts and filing forms. I thought I could do more being out on the street. Ya know? Being with people instead of paper."

Starsky thought of Hutch leaning up against the bar, trading jokes with Huggy Bar – his fine blond hair contrasting with Huggy's dark afro. Hutch smiling at Doris the waitress, no doubt leaving a bigger tip than necessary. Hutch getting into a car with a thug to share a meal and talk. Yeah, he doubted there was an office that could hold him.

"So what happened?" Starsky found himself asking.

"I got my high school girlfriend pregnant. Can you believe it? Talk about bad choices. I guess I thought I had something to prove. You should have seen the look on my parents' face when I told them." Hutch paused as if he were reliving the life-changing moment in his head, but then continued.

"Anyway, we got married real quick. But Nancy had a miscarriage at five months. After that, things just fell apart between us. We were too young to know who we really were or what we wanted."

"I'm sorry." Starsky had thought once about what it would be like to get married; to be a father. He'd thought his pop was the greatest man in the world and he'd wanted to be just like him. A couple of married guys in his army unit would sometimes risk his black mood to show off pictures of their smiling wives, their plump little babies. _Wouldn't losing all that be just as bad as losing a father?_

Starsky usually fought against reliving the past. Dredging up painful memories served only to poison the air, turning it foul and heavy. But this time was different. In fact, it seemed easier to breathe now than it had than when they'd first entered the apartment.

"What happened then?" Starsky asked.

"I wanted to go to the police academy, but I just couldn't disappoint my father any more than I already had. So I agreed to law school and here I am. Trying to pick up the pieces - putting the past behind me. Studying on my parent's dime by day, hanging out on the streets at night."

The few minutes of silence that followed Hutch's revelation was comforting rather than tense. The waves that had been tossing him for hours slowed to a gentle rocking, lulling him in time with Hutch's breathing.

"Do . . do you think it's really possible?" Starsky asked.

Hutch gave Starsky a sad laugh and little shove. "What is? Studying, hanging out, or picking up the pieces?"

"Putting the past behind."

Hutch turned on the couch to face him. The loss of contact made Starsky feel as though a piece of himself had gone missing. Hutch's face was thrown into shadows in the dimly lit room, but his eyes remained luminous.

"It's all I have to go on."

"But that's not what you're doin'." Starsky struggled to keep his eyelids open.

"What?" Hutch asked.

Starsky could hear a tremulousness in Hutch's normally even voice as he felt himself slip away. A chink in the armor.

"You're following someone else's dream. Not yours," Starsky said before succumbing to the pull of sleep.

ooOOoo

Starsky dreamed he was a creature locked in a fortress. He walked the parapets alone, shunned and forgotten by the rest of the world. Until one day a white knight breached the fortress walls. Starsky bared his teeth and swiped at him with his claws. But the knight had a singular gift. He could approach him without revulsion, seeing through to his soul. The monster that was Starsky became confused, snarling and snapping, yet not knowing how defend himself against the shiny armor. Until the white knight lifted his helmet to reveal that underneath he was just a man.

The next morning Hutch was gone, but he'd left a note behind.

 **Chapter Five**

" _Think of the one thing that you've always wanted. Now find it in your mind's eye and feel it in your heart."_

Disney's Beauty and the Beast

In the light of day, Gus Stone's low-slung office building looked unassuming. Harmless. But Starsky had found that appearances don't tell the whole story. Gus's modest yet serviceable work space was a far cry his luxurious house and exclusive parties, set apart from the hard-working people who bled to support his lavish lifestyle.

Starsky paused and swallowed hard outside the door to Stone's office. He hadn't been called in and he hadn't made an appointment. But such protocol wasn't about to stop him. His mind was made up.

Gus was on the phone when Starsky walked in. A few feet inside, Starsky pulled a set of keys from his pocket and tossed them over to the desk. The whoosh of air created by the flying keys caused the papers on its surface to flutter. Gus started to wave him away but something in Starsky's eyes caused Gus to change his mind. He looked down to the keys, then up at Starsky.

He ended his phone call tersely, setting the black handset in its cradle with a frown. "What's this?" Gus asked. "You wantin' a bigger pad? A fancier set of wheels?" He tapped the cigar he'd been smoking on the edge of a tortoise shell ashtray in dire need of emptying.

"I don't want anything." Starsky replied. "I quit."

Gus leaned back in his chair, gauging him. He inhaled deeply from the cigar, then blew a puff of smoke toward Starsky. "This isn't the kind of job you can quit with a fuckin' two-week notice."

"I ain't giving no notice. I'm done as of _now_."

Gus straightened abruptly, his displeasure sparking to life like a lit fuse. "What makes you think you can just walk away?"

Starsky held steady while his insides quaked. Yet his face was a mask. He'd had plenty of practice at hiding what he felt inside.

"Oh, I get it," Gus said when Starsky returned his glare unflinchingly. "You think to go into business for yourself? You think you can make easier money by fencing? Or maybe even pushing horse? Joe warned me about you. Loyal as a retriever but too damn smart for your own good."

The insinuations collected like a foul residue on Starsky's skin, as though he were wading through a swamp. He couldn't wait to go somewhere to wash off. "It ain't that. I'm done doing people's dirty work."

Gus' face colored. "Just who the _fuck_ do you think you are?"

"I'm no different than anyone else." The simple words tasted like sweet ambrosia on his lips. Manna to a starving man.

"Is that what you think? Well, you're wrong," Gus fumed. "You're a two-bit punk a long way from home. Where are you going to go? You can't just walk away like squeaky clean. Who's going to take you in the way I did? You're as dirty as I am."

Starsky shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe so, but I'll take that chance." He pulled the notebook from out of his jacket pocket and ripped pages, one by one, from the binder, tearing them into unreadable scraps. "I might not be able to stop you, but I can sure slow you down."

Gus lunged around the desk, heedless of the cigar that smashed in his hand. He grabbed for the ledger but he was too late. Names, amounts, dates, compounded by sweat and tears, floated to the floor like confetti. Inches away from Starsky, he quaked with rage, his neck mottled. His hands curled like claws at his sides.

"You're going to pay for that."

Starsky had nothing left to say. He just turned on his heel and walked out, leaving Gus' threats and stale, tobacco-laced breath behind. He strode out to the street where he stopped long enough to heave the contents of his stomach onto the curb.

Then he got up and walked resolutely away.

ooOOoo

Starsky had only one reason to go back to Huggy's. When he saw the tall blond sitting at the bar he was relieved the trip wasn't wasted.

"Here comes trouble." Behind the bar Huggy used his eyes as pointers.

Hutch turned in his stool to see Starsky walk through the door carrying an army duffle. The bar patrons' chatter turned to nervous whispers.

Hutch stood up cautiously at Starsky's approach. "What's in the bag, Starsk?"

"It ain't some kind of bomb, if that's what ya think." Starsky dropped his burden heavily on the floor and slid onto the stool next to Hutch. "Unless dirty laundry is life threatening." He gave a small smile that spread over to Hutch like a ripple of water.

Just like that, the tension that had followed Starsky into the bar dissipated into the smoky air.

"Did your washing machine in those fancy digs of yours break down?" Hutch sat back down and rested his hand on his glass.

"Let's just say, I moved out." Starsky turned to Huggy. "How about a beer? I'm just a regular customer today."

"That's good to know," Huggy said as he reached for a glass.

"What happened?" Hutch asked.

"I quit."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

Huggy set a beer down in front of Starsky. "In that case, this one's on the house."

Hutch lifted his glass and touched it to Starsky's with a 'clink.' Above the rims their eyes met, the two distinct shades of blue melding.

"What are you going to do now?" Hutch asked.

Starsky took a gulp of beer and swallowed, letting the refreshing liquid sooth the burn in his throat. "Not exactly sure."

"What about going back east?"

"Maybe later. Just not right now." He wouldn't admit he had no intention of showing up on his mother's doorstep with nothing more than a pair of too tight jeans to show for himself. The look on Hutch's face said he didn't need to.

"What about you?" Starsky asked purposefully. "Did you mean what you wrote?"

"About what I really wanted? " Hutch nodded. "I guess I have a call to make," he responded, his gaze never leaving Starsky's face. "I'll tell my parents this is going to be my last semester of law schooI. I won't be taking the bar in the spring."

"What?" Huggy's already wide eyes grew even larger as he looked from one to the other, caught up in their game of catch and release.

"Starsky and I got to talking the other night," Hutch said. "About how we might have been looking at things the wrong way. Being who other people wanted us to be, instead of just being ourselves."

"Hutch left me a note saying that if I straightened up, he'd quit law school," Starsky finished. "Seein' as how that's never what he wanted. He was just don' it to keep peace in the family."

Hutch gulped down the last of his beer and set the glass heavily on the bar. "I suppose my trust account will be closed within a week."

Starsky's glass followed suit. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. "I suppose Stone will try to get even."

Huggy looked from one to the other as they grinned at each other. Not catch after all. More like Chicken. "You're both crazy."

"Possibly," Hutch said.

Huggy shook his head. He picked up a rag and began to wipe the bar down, then stopped and slowly turned back to Starsky. "So if you're not working for Gus anymore, there's a good chance some other creep will be knocking at my door?"

"There's that chance," Starsky drawled.

"Seems to me I might need a good bouncer for a while," Huggy mused. You know anybody looking for a job? It doesn't pay much but at least it's honest work."

"You could flop on my couch for a while if you want," Hutch jumped in, before Starsky had a chance to turn him down. "My place isn't a castle, but at least it'll keep the rain off."

Starsky was speechless. He felt the same way he did when witnessing a small miracle, like a ray of sun piercing a cloud bank or the first buds of spring.

Hutch put a hand on Starsky's shoulder and gave him a little shake. "What do you say?"

The jostle served to break up whatever had jammed in Starsky's throat. "I guess I could, for a little while," he said, then adding, "long enough to make sure you get into the police academy, anyway."

Hutch smiled, giving Starsky the odd feeling that he'd known what Starsky was going to say all along.

"Police academy, huh?"

"I'm thinkin' it's where you belong," Starsky said. "You got a way of seein' the best in people, no matter how messed up they are."

When Huggy brought them two more glasses (the last ones on the house, he warned, or he would go broke), he found them sitting side by side so closely a napkin could barely pass between them.

 **Chapter Six**

"David Starsky!" A voice called out sharply out of the darkness.

Starsky and Hutch had finished their beers and helped Huggy close up shop. Starsky, his duffle slung over his shoulder, had followed Hutch out to his car when he heard the voice he figured would haunt his dreams for a long time to come. Its jagged sound echoed from the buildings that lined the city street.

Starsky and Hutch turned as one to see Gus Stone silhouetted under a street lamp across the street, his feet spread wide, his gray overcoat billowing in the cool air.

"I told you I'm done with you, Stone," Starsky called back. "Now go back under the rock you crawled out from."

"You think you're something special, like you're untouchable," Gus spat out. "Let me tell you something, boy. I know all about you."

Starky took a step forward, blocking Hutch with his body, but Hutch would have none of it, matching him move for move. "Leave it alone," Hutch warned.

"What's this to you, blondie? Don't tell me you care what happens to this punk. I got news for you. He can go down just like his father. Starsky's pig of a father wasn't capped in some random hit. It was planned all along. Your _buddy_ \- Joe Durniak - set up the whole thing," he directed at Starsky.

"What are you saying?" Starsky felt as if he'd been slammed in the gut. His knees grew weak and he sensed the blood drain from his face. He felt Hutch's arm at his elbow, bolstering him as Gus continued to rail.

"Don't you get it? Big Joe, everyone's favorite uncle, is in with the mob. A wise guy. But your pop, he was on to him, see? He was about to turn Joe in when he got burned. You want to know the funniest part?"

Gus's face split into a sadistic grin. "Joe actually liked you. Thought you were smart like your father. Joe thought he could get you to follow in his footsteps if he started early enough. But he messed up. That's why he sent you out here. Joe thought you might find out a truth you weren't ready for. That you didn't have the stomach to join the Family."

Gus pulled a gun from his coat pocket and pointed it at Starsky. "I'm gonna fix his mistake before your head gets any bigger."

Starsky stood immobilized as he listened to Gus' words, but because of the gun Gus trained on him. He suddenly realized that what he had done or didn't do that night all those years ago _hadn't_ mattered. It wasn't his fault that his father had died after all. It was Joe Durniak's.

Starsky's stomach began to roil just like it had at his pop's funeral. The years peeled away. He could see the contrived sympathy on Joe's face, smell the gardenias Joe had brought to the house. Their overpowering scent had left Davey slightly woozy.

He remembered the shiny Schwinn Joe had put together for Nicky on his birthday. The old car he'd miraculously arranged for Starsky to buy at sixteen. The back room meetings, the generous payments for packages carried and messages delivered after dark. The admonishments - _'keep this between us, kid' -_ that Joe had used to make him feel appreciated and reel him in bit by bit.

Hutch didn't move from Starsky's side. "Don't be a fool, Stone. Being a crooked loan shark is one thing. Being a murderer is something else," he cautioned coolly while next to him Starsky burned.

"Step aside, blondie. You don't want to die for this creep."

You got it wrong, Stone. It's _you_ who's the beast." Hutch loudly called out.

Starsky saw Gus turn his gun on Hutch at the insult. The motion made him come to life. He moved to push Hutch aside when he heard the crack of gunfire and felt a white hot poker stab his shoulder. The force of it threw him backwards and he landed hard on the pavement.

The night exploded then with the scream of sirens, a cacophony of shouts and running feet.

"No!" Hutch cried out, dropping down beside him. Starsky felt Hutch grope him in frantic tenderness. When Hutch found the bullet wound to his shoulder, he pressed down with both hands and Starsky sucked in a painful breath.

He distantly heard calls of "Police! Put your hands in the air!" More shouts and a scuffle.

"Oh God!" Huggy suddenly joined Hutch crouched with Starsky on the ground. "I was afraid of something like this. That Gus Stone is one badass dude. I knew no way was he gonna let Starsky walk away. I saw the whole scene go down and did something I thought I'd never do – call the cops."

Starsky tried to speak but only managed a groan.

"Hang on, buddy. It's going to be okay," Hutch crooned.

Starsky moaned again. There was something he needed to say. Starsky was seeing his life as one long dizzying carousel ride, a parade of faces that blurred in passing. His father, mother, counselors, Big Joe. But then his focus settled in on one.

"I'm here," Hutch said.

An officer ran over to them yelling, "an ambulance is on its way." Two other policemen had put Gus Stone in handcuffs and were leading him to a squad car. "What happened here?" The office said as reached them.

"Gus Stone took a shot at my friend, here. Nearly killed him." Hutch said, not releasing the pressure of his hands or taking his eyes from Starsky's face.

"I saw the whole thing from my place across the street, officer." Huggy stood and gestured to his bar. "I was the one who made the call. Stone's been hassling this neighborhood for years."

 _My friend._ Starsky grabbed for Hutch's arm. "N . . . not a monster . . . " He felt weak, fading away.

"No, babe," Hutch leaned in to whisper. "That you could never be."

A team of paramedics appeared and Hutch moved aside. They examined Starsky's shoulder and took his vital signs with Hutch hovering inches away. When they secured Starsky in a gurney and lifted him into the ambulance, Hutch climbed in beside him.

When Starsky was finally settled, he turned to Hutch. Pain medications were starting to kick in, making him feel dreamy and peaceful. "Everything's gonna be okay now, isn't it?"

Hutch smiled down at him. "It sure is. We have a whole other lifetime to live."

Starsky caught his reflection in a mirror hanging from one side of the ambulance. He noticed he could use a haircut and that his shirt was torn and bloodied. He saw he wasn't perfect, but not irredeemable either. He was just - human.

 **FIN**


End file.
